


All These Words I Never Said

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: "I want you to know that if you want to talk, ever, about anything, I'd be happy to listen." He smiles at her, quickly, sweetly. "Goodnight.""How about now?" It's a bit too urgent, a bit too much of everything and she bites her tongue as the words leave her mouth.
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen & Raymond Reddington, Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington
Comments: 13
Kudos: 162





	1. It Can Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, one brief moment from last week's episode inspired me to write this. It's a reimagining of sorts. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know!

He hasn't looked at her.

It's been fifteen minutes of driving through nightly D.C., fifteen minutes of sitting beside him in the backseat of his Mercedes, fifteen minutes of casual conversation and he hasn't looked at her.

Telling, really.

It's an odd thing, she thinks. This _atmosphere_. This _stuck somewhere between casual acquaintance_ and _I would risk my life for you. I would kill for you._

_I would, I would, I would._

She thinks he still would.

(She would. She _has_.)

And she wants him to look at her. _Really_ look.

He had picked her up from the Post Office, _we were just in the neighborhood_ , and she knew that wasn't exactly the truth either, these things are rarely coincidental and he plans his routes more carefully than that, but they mostly talk on the phone these days and she'd been grateful for the gesture.

They have gotten scarce now, these private moments, these instants that hint at something more than a name on a list, something personal. She finds it harder to catch glimpses of it, doesn't notice him smiling as much as she used to. His suit and persona are always so perfectly, impeccably in place.

(Sometimes, most times, she wishes they weren't.)

And yes, maybe she hasn't been exactly open with him either. Maybe she's grown insecure, can't seem to break down the walls he's surrounded himself with, can't find the right words. Or maybe she's just had a long day and she's imagining whatever is unfolding between them. Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.

"It really is exquisite."

He's talking about art and she's watching him, refutes his remarks to keep the conversation going. A trick, to some degree, a challenge.

"It's exquisite because of what you know about it, where it came from, who made it," she tells him. "I like art that's more emotional."

It's a quick comment, innocent. And yet.

And yet the air around them changes in the blink of an eye. She can sense it.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, Elizabeth. Nothing is the matter."

"Your expression says differently."

"I'm just a tad surprised, that is all."

"Why? What did I say?"

"You said you preferred emotional art."

"And?"

"And frankly, Lizzie, you haven't been exactly—"

"What? I haven't been what, Red?"

The car stops before he can finish his thought.

"We're here," he says instead, deflecting.

"I'm sorry?"

"We're here. In front of your building."

But she doesn't move and he's shifting beneath her gaze.

"I haven't been exactly what, Red?"

"It's late. Forget I said anything."

"You think I keep people at arm's length." It's a statement, not a question. She knows him well enough to read between the lines.

There's a chuckle that fills the silence, it's not warm, not kind, just something defeated, something that he has kept hidden.

"No," he says and looks straight at her. "I think you're keeping _me_ at arm's length."

* * *

It doesn't exactly feel like a gut punch, it's not a dull sensation, no, it's sharp and biting and it's hit its mark quite effectively.

It stings because it's true, because he thinks about her, because he observes, because he analyzes, because he knows her and because it's taken him until now to address it. It stings because she's hurt him.

She wonders how long he's felt this way, she wonders what she could possibly respond.

Something juvenile like _right back at you_ , something accusatory like _you never tell me anything_ , something desperate like _if only you knew how much I missed you_.

Instead, she concedes.

"You're right." Again, quieter now. "You're right."

An offer. Simple. His turn.

They feel endless, the minutes that silently pass between them, and she's not exactly sure what she's waiting for, her apartment is _right there_ and she really should be leaving. She's not going to have this conversation in his backseat.

He's turned away from her now, stares off into the darkness of her street.

"I'm going to go. Thank you for the ride," she says finally and reaches for the door handle.

"Why are you?"

"What?"

"Why are you keeping me at arm's length?"

"I'm not sure I can answer that, Red. Not like this."

"Another time then, maybe."

_Do something_ , she tells herself, _do something or this will last_. _You wouldn't want this to last._

_What are you so scared of?_

That they can't go back to the way they were. That he doesn't trust her. That he doesn't need her.

(That he doesn't want her.)

It's a thousand things, a thousand irrational and unreasonable and insidious thoughts that have invaded her mind, that make her doubt her instincts, that render her silent.

And so she steps out, buttons her coat and walks towards her building. Takes the elevator up to her apartment. Moves down the hallway, unlocks the door, turns on the light.

Approaches the window to look outside. And sees him there, still. Leaning against the side of his car, looking back at her.

And then her phone starts ringing.

"Hello?"

"You made it home safely, I see."

"Someone was kind enough to drop me off."

She thinks he's smiling.

"Lizzie, listen. I want you to know…"

( _If you are in need, I will be there_.)

"Yes?"

"I want you to know that if you want to talk, ever, about anything, I'd be happy to listen." He waves up at her, quickly, sweetly. "Goodnight."

"How about now?" It's a bit too urgent, a bit too much of everything and she bites her tongue as the words leave her mouth. "No, that's…I know you have somewhere to be, just ignore—"

"Okay."

"What?"

"I said okay."

"You were on your way to the airport."

"It can wait."

"You have a whole trip scheduled, I wouldn't want to—"

"Lizzie." She watches him make his way to the front door, hears the conviction in his voice before he hangs up. "It can wait. Let's talk."


	2. Long Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, thank you all so much for your wonderful feedback on the first chapter. Here’s the conclusion. The last few eps have been incredibly promising and have made for stellar inspiration. 
> 
> I hope you’re all staying healthy. Enjoy this chapter and thanks again!

She’s wondering how time could possibly move this slowly.

She’s wondering quite a few things.

She wonders if she should leave the door open so he can invite himself in or if she should keep it locked instead so he has to ring the doorbell. She wonders if she should make tea, if they need something stronger, where she will sit, where he will sit, she wonders how in the world this night will end.

And then there's a knock on the door.

* * *

“Funny meeting you here,” she teases as she steps aside to let him in, tries to set a light tone for the rest of the evening.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“Would you like a drink? Coffee? Tea?”

He crosses the threshold and takes off his coat, folds it up neatly and places it over one of the kitchen chairs.

“A glass of wine, perhaps. Given the occasion.”

“And what’s the occasion?” she inquires from the kitchen.

“Late night chats in delightful company.”

“And by delightful you’re referring to—“

“—myself, of course.”

She can't help but laugh, raises an eyebrow at him.

“In all seriousness though, Lizzie. Thank you for this.”

“It seems oddly official, doesn’t it?”

“We can do something about that.” He loosens his tie, unbuttons his vest. “How about now?”

“Almost breathtakingly casual, Red. Here," she hands him his glass and follows him into the living room, "your night cap."

He chuckles, sits down on the sofa and waits for her to join him.

“To us” he says. Raises his glass as she takes the spot on the other end.

“To us.”

* * *

She shouldn't have worried. It's really quite easy.

He saves them both from awkward moments, steers the conversation like a skilled raconteur, makes her laugh with preposterous stories and eases the tension, asks the right questions. It feels like the nights spent on the run, she thinks, when everything felt confidential, affectionate, when they would share secrets no one else would ever know about.

The gap between them has shrunken considerably and she's not sure if it was her that had moved closer over the course of the past hour or if it was a natural progression, that pull, that bond that brings them back together, still. 

(He can't really accuse her of keeping him at arm's length any longer. The space between them is much too small for that.)

She watches him as he takes the last sip and feels sentimental suddenly, aching for something that goes far beyond simple conversations. Aching for something that's much more complicated.

"Penny for your thoughts, Lizzie."

"Aren't you adept in coin tricks?"

"Touché." He notices her hand rest between them, briefly touches it to shake her from her reverie. "Talk to me. What's on your mind? We were getting so good at this."

"I was just remembering something."

"And what's that?"

"Your expression."

"My expression when—"

"I told you I loved you."

It's fascinating, how quickly he comes to his senses, how quickly he puts his defenses back up.

"And what about my expression?" His tone has changed but she's feeling just daring enough. The wine is burning in her throat.

"It was strangely difficult to read. To profile. I think about it quite often, to be honest with you. We've never talked about it."

"No, we have not."

Maybe he'll take the hint, she thinks. Maybe he won't run this time. Maybe he won't deflect.

She gets up, grabs their glasses and brings them into the kitchen, stays there by the counter as she hears his footsteps approach. She wonders if she's made a mistake, if she should have left it alone.

(The truth is she knows this might just be her last chance. Their last chance.)

He's understood well enough.

"What would you like us to be, Lizzie?" he asks. "What do you want me to be?"

Acquaintances. Partners. Friends. Conspirators. Confidants.

_Do something._

“Something more.”

If he's surprised, shocked, relieved, he doesn't show it. Instead, he turns away from her as if to prepare for his closing argument, as if to lay down all his carefully phrased excuses and caveats and all of his worries, he must have them all memorized, she thinks, and she doesn't want to hear any of it, she doesn't care about any of it, no, she just cares about him, and when he starts tapping his fingers against his side in a nervous habit, she knows she's right.

"Red, stop."

The movement ceases and he turns to face her. Keeps a safe distance.

“You’re not good at it, you know. Accepting it. Believing me. And I can’t blame you for that. But I do mean it, Red. When I’m telling you now that I can’t imagine my life without you anymore, I do mean it.”

He's glued to the spot, listening, waiting.

"And when I’m telling you that I _want_ you here, that I need you here, I mean it.“

His expression awestruck, his eyes wide open.

“And when I’m telling you now that I love you, Red," she pauses, waits for the words to reach him, to strike, "then I do mean it." Genuine, earnest. "I promise.”

It's the second time he's heard it. That fateful phrase.

(That small fact in itself seems like a miracle.)

It doesn’t lessen the impact. Quite the opposite. He could have brushed off the first instance as pity, as some jail-induced delirium, as some kind of closure they had both so desperately sought given the circumstances. Maybe that's what it was, his expression. All of it. An amalgamation of hope and despair and forgiveness.

But now, hearing it _now_ , deliberately reiterated, he has no choice but to accept it. To finally, definitely believe her.

His steps are slow, they're determined, they're something she's familiar with, reminiscent of better times, harder times, _can you forgive me_ , _will you be able to forgive yourself_.

He doesn't touch her this time. He just stops right in front of her, captivated and hopeful and almost timid, as if she could take it back at any moment, those three words, his catharsis, his redemption, the reason he's still here, and he looks at her, stares at her, her back pressed against the counter and her breathing perfectly calm as he whispers her name, _Lizzie_ , pleading, wishing, as he softly sighs.

It's rare, this expression. It's something she wants to frame, a piece of art, wistful and innocent and gentle. It's him letting go of the past.

It's what tells her she's right. He feels it, too.

With his eyes following her every move, she lifts her hand and runs her fingers down the side of his face, down his temple and cheek, makes him shiver.

And pulls him close.

* * *

They had almost crossed that particular line before over the years. Almost, almost, almost.

She had kissed him on the cheek once, in the middle of a dark exhibit, the setting absurdly intimate and her lips pressed against the corner of his.

He had kissed her hair, her temple, many times. She had always been so hyperaware of it, those small gestures. She doesn't think he understands just how much. She had always noticed how he would linger, how he would close his eyes to make the outside world disappear.

There had been moments when all it would have taken was a little conviction, a little less fear, that infamous final step. They had both felt it. A shipping container. A hotel room. Outside of a courthouse.

Kissing him now, however, the only thought that crosses her mind is this:

_This must be what devotion feels like._

He's so gentle, so riveted, she thinks her heart will burst right out of her chest. Right there on the spot.

And as his initial shock subsides, his hands move up to her face, trace down the nape of her neck and finally settle on the counter, on either side of her, holding on.

And when he opens his eyes and looks at her, she can hear the words reverberate, in her conscience, off the walls of her apartment, right there in the air surrounding them.

_Lizzie._

It's taken him long enough.

_I love you, too._

* * *

Later that night, she watches him reach for his coat.

"What are you doing?" she asks as she moves towards him.

"I'm going to hang this up properly. Wrinkles in this material are particularly unbecoming."

"Oh."

" _Oh_ what, Lizzie?"

"For a moment there I thought you would be leaving."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"I can't think of a single reason, Red."

"Precisely. Plus, I've been welcomed with such hospitality here. Would be an awful shame if this evening were to be cut sho—"

She kisses him, holds him there.

“Red?” she whispers against his lips.

“Yeah?” His tone is endearingly uneven.

“Shut up.”


End file.
